


The Mania Within

by bionically



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Time Travel, Choking, Endless smut, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Headmaster Tom Riddle, Knifeplay, Non-Consensual Bondage, Non-Consensual Spanking, Possessive Tom Riddle, Professor Tom Riddle, Sex, Smut, Spanking, Teacher-Student Relationship, Tom Riddle is His Own Warning, Tom Riddle would not understand safewords if it bit him on the rear, Vaginal Fingering, non consensual knifeplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:20:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24407926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bionically/pseuds/bionically
Summary: There's an enigmatic young Headmaster at Hogwarts this year, and only Hermione knows who he really is...Tomione Smutfest 2020 Prompt: Teacher/Student
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle
Comments: 49
Kudos: 464
Collections: Tomione Smut Fest 2020





	The Mania Within

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [TomioneSmutFest20](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/TomioneSmutFest20) collection. 



> This takes place in Order of Phoenix, so Hermione Granger is sixteen-ish at this time, which is considered the age of consent in the UK. It's still really young, so PLEASE don't read on if this is a trigger for you.

It took Hermione just two weeks to figure out who he was. 

By then, it was far too late to escape.

The new Headmaster of Hogwarts, the handsome, charming man standing by Dolores Umbridge, drew all the attention in the Great Hall. He was a dark, brooding figure with cold, gleaming eyes that shone like gemstones and reflected none of the mania within. His gaze appeared so black that they actually absorbed light, shifting across the room before landing on Hermione. All the hair on Hermione’s skin stood straight up as his chillingly dead expression eased into a smile of gradual recognition.

The smile transformed Headmaster Riddle utterly. Dimples formed on either side of his mouth, a lock of wavy dark hair fell boyishly over one brow, and he suddenly seemed so captivating that no one was immune to his magnetism. Even Harry seemed dazzled.

Hermione recognised his expression for what it was—that of a predator catching sight of its prey.

* * *

The summons for her came after dinner. 

One moment she was chatting with her friends, lingering over the half-cleared table; the next, blankness permeated her mind. Her spine straightened without her say-so, and a frozen numbness overtook her muscles.

"Sorry, I've just forgotten," her mouth was saying, her eyes looking first at Harry, then Ron, then Ginny, who'd been talking about Quidditch plays. Her eyelids swept down in a blink, and even that did not feel like her own volition. Her mouth pulled up at the ends in a semblance of smile that felt markedly different than how it had felt a moment ago. "I've got to go to the library."

Why didn't anyone notice that she was acting differently? Her eyes were surely at odds with her stiffly smiling mouth; her words must have sounded strange.

Nobody seemed to find any of this out of the ordinary.

"You can't leave every time Quidditch comes up in the conversation," Seamus said, coming up behind Hermione and looping an arm over her shoulder, but his joking smile was wide and directed at their friends.

_No, that's not it,_ she tried to say. _I don't always leave when the topic is Quidditch! I listen! I pay attention._

Nobody heard her internal protest. Ginny flashed her an amused smile but didn't demur when Hermione swung a leg over the bench. 

Her head whipped forward, and the view of her laughing, chatting friends was lost as her legs unerringly took her to the northwest of the castle. Parts of her sought to stall, and when her eyes involuntarily met those of passing classmates, she imbued her gaze with a plea that went unheeded. She wasn't on the way to the library; wasn't anyone going to notice and stop her?

As usual, no one did.

Her feet came to an abrupt halt at the bottom of the Headmaster's Tower. She tightened the muscles of her cheeks, clamping down her lips as hard as she could to no avail—despite her best efforts and a sheen of tears blurring her vision, a whisper floated out of her mouth in her voice. The gargoyle furled his stone wings, allowing the staircase to slowly begin to rotate, carrying Hermione up, up, and up.

All the while, a voice inside her head shouted soundlessly for help.

There was nobody apparently present in the office when her legs marched obediently forward. The door behind her snapped shut with an ominous click, and Hermione felt the _Imperio_ melt off her. 

It was a strange feeling that she couldn't get used to, no matter how often it had happened. Being under an Imperio was like a waking death. An invisible mask was forced over her face, and her eyes stared helplessly out of two cutout holes faced in whichever direction someone else intended. Her hands and feet became wooden sticks attached to imperceptible strings, twitching in time to someone else’s music, and her mouth framed words that were completely different from how she intended them in her head. She was still _her_ inside, but she was buried so deeply that no voice could be heard. 

Once she felt the distinct tingle of the Imperio crawl up her spine, her bones and flesh snapped into attention to do someone else’s bidding. She’d woken out of numerous nightmares in the past weeks that the curse would melt away to leave her standing next to a dead body, her hands drenched with the blood dripping from the murder weapon.

She spent all of her spare time in the last week attempting to find a way to fight off the Imperio. Harry had done it; she'd seen him. 

Hermione Granger could not, even though she’d tried, time and again.

It was cast on her remotely whenever he wished, the spell only taken off once she was inside this room. 

Once she was here, she was free to speak her mind, though _he_ was also free to do as he willed to her.

As always, he seemed to materialise into being. One minute she was seemingly alone in the room, and the next he was standing right in front of his desk, watching her approach with the intensity of an eagle, his unblinking, predatory eyes tracking her movement in a way that made her nervous and on edge. When she stopped a metre away from his desk, he pushed off the edge and began to unbutton his shirt sleeves, rolling them up and revealing leanly muscled forearms at odds with his otherwise pristine and unearthly appearance.

Her breath was lodged in her throat, and her pulse pounded away at double its usual speed. Flickering shadows from the light of the fireplace danced through the room like silent spectators, watching him circle once around her, one hand in his pocket and the other idly twirling his wand. A light breeze from the open windows swept up the gauzy curtains again and again, so that they danced and floated at the edge of her periphery. The room swam with the smell of the night-blooming jasmine climbing the outside of the Headmaster’s tower. No other tower in Hogwarts smelled like this one, especially not in the first term with the fading warmth of summer. 

Despite herself, she found her thighs quivering in anticipation, her stomach churning with something that wasn’t exactly fear.

He slapped his wand against the palm of his hand; a light tapping sound that made her flinch at what was in store for her. His head tilted to the side, and she could feel soft coils crawling over her mind, turning over the past day's events in her brain. She blinked her eyes rapidly, but it didn’t work. Nothing ever seemed to work. The cool touch of ribbons fluttered through her memories, her time spent in the library neatly siphoned out of the depths of her mind for his perusal. "You've been trying to figure out the furthest extent of the Imperius Curse."

He seemed amused. He was always amused by everything she did. Why not; it was completely ineffectual against everything this man could do and did?

"Naughty girl," he said, sounding almost lazy in his chastisement; a purring lion surveying his downed prey with indolent satisfaction. 

Hermione knew what was coming next, yet she tensed. She hated this; she wished she were dead; she wished _he_ were dead.

"Little liar." She started at how close he was, his breath tickling the rim of her ear. The musky scent of earth and wood with just the faintest metallic tang enveloped her, and she was suddenly reminded of how he came to be resurrected. 

_A graveyard. The smell of freshly dug earth, the sweetness of wet, rotting wood._

_And blood._

_Harry’s blood._

She jerked out of her reverie when a hand wrapped around the side of her neck. His thumb traced an idle line down the underside of her chin over her larynx. There was no tightness in his grip; not yet, but the threat was unmistakable. "You don't hate this at all. Otherwise you wouldn't always break the rules, would you?"

In her mind, she threw her response back at him. **_There are one of two things I have a right to, liberty or death; if I can not have one, I will have the other_ ** _.*_ She stared at him in challenge.

“Muggles,” he said, a faint sneer breaking the perfect line of his upper lip, sharply etched like that of marble statues. Though his thumb did not move, his other fingers tightened around her nape ever so slightly. “And American at that.”

He’d recognised the phrase, she assumed, even if he’d attributed it to the wrong person. She thought her quote was more appropriate, in all aspects. 

He laughed at the mutinous expression on her face and released her neck. She took a giant gulp of air as he stepped away. "So much rebellion in that brain of yours. You see, Ms Granger, all you have to do is simply refrain from _trying_ to tell people, and I'd never have cause to...discipline you."

That she couldn't do. Her sole occupation since the start of the school year had been to find a way to tell others that their handsome, charming new Headmaster was the fully regenerated Voldemort. How he came to be in this younger, healthy, and normal incarnation was anyone's guess. Only Harry had seen him in the graveyard and lived to tell the tale. In Harry’s story, that man had been snake-like and horrifying; more dead than alive, more beast than man, and yet the undeniable truth faced her right now.

Voldemort lived again; a young, vibrant Tom Riddle, who'd got rid of Albus Dumbledore and set himself up as Headmaster with the indulgent blessing of the Ministry. He was inside the school that had cause to fear him; strolling around as though he owned the place. 

And she was the only one who knew.

His voice was low and seductive as he walked over to the desk and tapped on its surface with his wand. "Come here and bend over, please."

Hermione didn't comply immediately. Of course not. She never did—not willingly—and yet he always asked her, as though testing to see if she would; a tedious refrain they cycled through each and every time. After a long moment, he gave a negligent flick of his wand. She began to move like a marionette, crossing the room to the desk and leaning over it. She fought the entire time her elbows lowered to brace on the cool scarred wood, and again as her back arched and her arse rose up in the air so that she felt the pull in the tendons behind her knees.

She was locked in place, her breath coming in hard as she listened for his approach; that steady, masculine tread on the flagstone, muffled on the rug. The draft from the open windows was cut off when he paused right behind her. She closed her eyes in anguish. The warmth of his body was a physical thing behind her even before the soft fabric of his trousers pressed in against the folds of her skirt, brushing against her bare legs. 

“No,” she said through gritted teeth, the veins on her hands whitening as she pulled against the sticking charm. “I _won’t.”_

It was a lie, and both of them knew it. She didn’t need to hear his chuckle, or his softly murmured, “Oh, but you _will._ And you’ll even like it,” for the tears to begin to well up in her eyes.

Goosebumps rose over her thighs as he flipped her skirt up over her back. Her nails dug into the surface of the desk, and she noted the numerous lines and swirls in the wood. Cypress, she recalled. With her face pressed this close to it, she could smell the citrus accent of the desk, and it reminded her of other times she’d been in this room. Times when she’d been an innocent and happy student, not this mindless automaton.

A light finger began to trace up the back of one thigh, not stopping once it reached the edge of her knickers, drawing a line over the fabric covering up her secret place, pausing over the most sensitive nubbin between her legs. 

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, and a single teardrop slashed through the air to fall on the wood near her thumb. She purposefully blanked her mind as that finger down below was joined by two others. She recited Arithmancy formulas as the hand retraced their lingering route, leisurely spreading to stroke the lips of her cunt clearly delineated through her knickers.

"You feel wet already," he said. His voice was slightly more guttural than before. "Were you anticipating this?"

Her molars were grinding down so hard she was giving herself a headache. It was still preferable to _enjoying_ this. The denial was ripped out of her dry throat. "No, I wasn't!" 

"Your pretty cunt says otherwise." 

He hummed as he pressed his fingers through the cloth, finding exactly where her arsehole was and rubbing a long, sensuous line all the way down to her clit. Her thighs shuddered with the urge to clamp shut, but her feet remained locked in place where he’d placed them.

Hermione bit down on her bottom lip. A light breeze blew in from the open windows, cooling her flushed face. If she concentrated hard enough, she could imagine that she was doing any other activity she hated just as much. Flying, perhaps.

"Shall we begin?" he asked. 

Her fingers relaxed their white-knuckled grip on top of the desk. It was relief that flooded her when his hand withdrew from between her legs; definitely relief. It was surely not regret and a secret yearning for more. She didn't want this; she didn't want any of this. 

This was a nightmare.

"Should we say ten strokes?" There was a caress on the back of her leg before he squeezed her thigh, right where her legs met in the middle. The tips of his fingers scraped deliberately against her entrance, and the unexpected friction there made her inhale sharply. Her thighs instinctively tried to snap closed against his intrusive hand.

She heard the amusement in his voice as he rephrased. "Ten to start with. More if you're," his voice lowered and became so husky it rasped over her spine like a tangible thing, "really naughty."

She knew what was coming, knew not to make a sound. Instead she burrowed her face in her elbow as his palm came down and slapped her on her right buttock. The sharp sting nearly surprised a yelp from her, and she bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from crying out. 

His hand didn’t lift from where it had struck her. "Count it.”

She paused until his fingers dug into her skin in punishment. "One.” The syllable was short and huffed out from between white lips. 

His hard chest supported her back as though in reward for her obedience, and her hair was gently, even tenderly, lifted from the back of her neck. Cool air swirled the small tendrils of hair at her nape and replaced with his lips, sucking on her skin right under one ear, in a creepy semblance of affection even as she shrank away. Kissing her as though he were her lover. As though all of this were perfectly normal.

He was a sociopath.

His hand squeezed her arse again, this time his fingers delving under the leg opening of her knickers, liberally stroking her pulsing folds. She squeezed her eyes shut against the sensation and pictured instead the wand movements to blast this room into smithereens. She could do this; she could survive him and anything he dealt her.

He pressed an open-mouthed kiss over the line of her neck before lifting himself off. There was another slap, this time on the other buttock, before his hand flexed on her skin. Waiting.

"Two," she said through clenched teeth.

He gripped the back of the knickers and pulled it up so that they rode high up between her legs, separating her labia and sharply pressing up against her clit and anus. She gasped as she was lifted up on her toes, and her eyes flashed open.

She didn’t have to look back to determine where he was. A leg brushed against the back of her knee. A breath of air high on the back of her thigh. Hermione shut her mind against it all, pulling on all her resources to disassociate from the tingling sensation of her legs. It shouldn’t be hard—it shouldn’t be hard at all to imagine another man there. Anyone else but who was actually there.

He was kneeling behind her now, his face at level with her arse. 

Of all the things he subjected her to, this surely was the most humiliating. 

A finger came out to stroke one side of her sex, testing the plumpness of her labia even as he blew warm air to brush against her sensitive folds. She wished her hair grew in faster down there, but he'd done something to her the first time. He'd whispered in her ear that he wanted to examine _every part of her_. The look in his eyes had been so dark and ferocious as he stared at her bared hips that she'd been frightened out of her mind that he was going to stab her right then and there. She thought for certain that he was going to end her life. Instead he'd only performed a stinging spell that completely denuded her bits.

It was a small relief compounded with a humiliating reminder every single time she saw herself nude. The hair hadn’t grown back. She was now completely bare to the elements. To _him._

Worst of all, he’d signed his work. 

He'd held her down on his desk, her hands tied with his belt and blindfolded with his tie. His shaft had been buried balls deep inside her when she felt a pinprick on her pelvis, a sharp scrape against her skin that jerked her out of her shuddering climax. She rubbed her face against her shoulder to shift the blindfold.

"Careful," he said in a singsong voice. A hand came out to grip her around her neck, locking her in place. 

Another stab of pain, this one sharper, causing her to cry out. "What are you doing?" Her thighs thrashed helplessly around him as she tried to pull away from the stabbing sensation to her nether region. _What was he doing?_ The problem was, she never knew. Last time he only cast a depilatory charm on her. What he would think to do this time, she had no idea.

His mouth crashed over hers. Silk fluttered over her face as the tie was removed from over her eyes. She blinked up at him, at the self-satisfied smirk on his face, and then fell down past his open white shirt to where they were still joined. He pulsed inside her, but what caused her breath to catch was the smear of blood on his pelvis and low on her mons.

Had her cycle started? A surge of embarrassment swept over her before his thumb brushed across her pubic bone and she flinched at the pressure. It shouldn’t have hurt, but his touch had pulled at her skin, scraped across her nerves. His length pulled on her, stretched her core as he shifted. With a smile, he muttered an incantation. 

Hermione gasped as her skin tingled, like someone had touched her with an ice cube. The blood vanished, and she could see writing above her entrance. _TMR_ was etched in indelible ink low on her pelvis, only a centimetre above where her folds began. Where her pubic hair would have covered it neatly up.

He'd _marked_ her while they were fucking. Used a carving spell to etch his initials on her. Not only that, it appeared to be permanent. A deliberate, sweeping cursive every bit a brand as the Dark Mark to which he’d subjected his followers.

She was so shocked, she found the strength to shove him off. Her rage was so immense the glass he’d picked up shattered. She’d have given anything for one of the glass shards to have embedded itself into his throat. 

She wasn’t so lucky. 

The glass remained floating, frozen in exactly the place where they’d exploded outward from his whiskey glass in the one second after it had shattered. The Firewhiskey shimmered in the air, a cascade of liquor caught between time and space, dancing with reflected light a metre off the ground. 

He straightened. A long, dangerous figure with his shirt and trousers undone, he nonetheless behaved as though he were impeccably robed, indolently striding the two steps over to where he’d grounded her movements. 

In another motion too fast to be comprehended, all the clothing she was wearing fell to pieces at her feet, and she was slammed backwards onto the nearest wall, her legs spread apart and her hairless seam displayed for him at face level. She tried screaming, but the sounds were completely silenced in the room, ripping out of her hoarse throat to melt into nothingness. She broke off to pant for breath as he’d licked her with that unseemly long tongue, from front to back. It’d been on his fully-clothed shoulders that she’d shattered on his mouth, gripping that perfect head of hair with shaky fingers as he pressed down on his tattooed initials over her mound, instantly bringing her to ecstasy again and again.

It was a link with him. A link with this debased, thrice-damned Dark Wizard and diffused with his particular brand of Dark magic.

She did her best to avoid touching it. 

In the dark of the night when her fingers unwittingly brushed against the mark and sent a paroxysm of leg-shuddering ecstasy rippling through her body, images would flash through her head. Of the young Headmaster stopping in the middle of his reading to tilt his head to the side and sniff the air as though he sensed something. Of his hand clenching down into a white fist as his breath came faster and he too fought against the pull of the occult. Of him striding angrily through his rooms as he shot uncontrolled hexes, breaking anything that displeased him.

Of him finally giving in to the same addiction that gripped her, pulling that long, thick cock from within his trousers, and stroking himself slowly. Of the veins that stood out in his forearms as he gripped and pulled at his member harder and harder. Of the name that soundlessly formed on his mouth as thick, white come spewed out of his weeping head to mark an obscene pattern on the ancient rugs of the tower.

It was small consolation; that whatever beset her from his damnable mark haunted him just as much.

Were the images a figment of her imagination? Whenever she saw him, an eerily calm smiling figure, hellbent on sending her around the bend while maintaining his own dignity, uncertainty always overrode her. Surely she had conjured them up out of a longing for his destruction.

His light fingers now tapped gently at the mouth of her arousal, as though to show his control in stark contrast to her flushed, panting state.. "You're soaked," he said, his voice cool and observant. Her arse contracted from the breezy air, and her head swirled with the conflicting emotions. _Throw him off_ , a voice inside her urged, just as another voice said, _Make him go faster. You’re leaking. You want his thick cock buried inside you. Why fight it?_ "From just two strikes? Are your nipples hard too, Ms Granger?"

She swallowed hard and said nothing. They _were_ hard, stinging and aching and had been since the Imperio locked her into position, as though her body knew exactly what was to come. Anticipated it, begged for it. Her breasts felt engorged and heavy, and her pebbled nipples oversensitive in their bra cups. The two strikes to her buttocks had made her lurch against the desktop, and the friction of the cloth against her chest had almost made her groan aloud.

Without another word, he rose to his feet next to her. A motion flourished in her periphery, and her shirt fell apart, slashed in two, her bra falling to the sides. She gasped as her breasts tumbled free from their restraints, gooseflesh rising on her chest at the sudden sensation of the cool surface of the desk. 

Her arms were still glued to the surface, but she could look up. She gave him a thoroughly hate-filled glare as he ambled around the side of the desk, cocking his head to one side to take in her bared state. Debauched. Demoralised. Defiled.

But not beaten, she vowed. Never giving up.

"They're very sensitive, aren't they? Your nipples," he said almost conversationally.

She didn't respond as her wrists tensed and sought to rotate against its strictures. He knew exactly how responsive they were, and she hated that he knew it, that he could make the most disgusting mewling sounds come out of her when he tugged on them and pinched them to hard peaks between his fingers. 

There was a hard ridge of cock beneath the dark cloth of his trousers, twitching infinitesimally as he stood there watching her. He was getting aroused by this. Of course he was. He smirked as he noted the direction of her resentful stare, and one lean, long-fingered hand lowered to lazily grip himself through the tenting of his inseam. "Soon."

The promise sent memories of their past encounters flitting through her head, and she wet her lips involuntarily before jerking her face down and centre. Away from that all-seeing gaze. There was a slap to her right buttock; this time not as hard as before. She had lost count, and now his hand began to trace a line up the inside of her thigh to rub lightly over her entrance—not enough to make her cry out but just enough so that the tension began to build in the pit of her stomach. She braced herself for—what? She didn’t even know anymore.

"Three," she said, her voice sounding shaky and tremulous.

Another slap, a light one with only his fingers, on the opposite side. His other hand massaged the area where the third slap had struck. To her horror, she felt wetness slipping unchecked down the inside of her thigh.

His hand didn’t cease its squeezing even as he noted her arousal. A finger prodded her inner folds, and she heard with shame the telltale squelch of her wetness as he thrust the tip of two fingers into her core.

Her hands clenched into fists, and she bit down on her lip to keep from begging for more. 

His voice was conversational as he observed his effect on her. "You're dripping on my rug."

A hand came up from under her arm to grip her around her throat, fingers pressing hard on either side of her neck. She yelped as her arms came unstuck and she was hauled upright to stare into his eyes. "It’s a very expensive rug. An ancient artifact. I think there should be an additional punishment for that, don't you? You’re making more work for the house elves." His voice was soft and gentle; a marked contrast with the all-consuming heat in his eyes. Something shadowed and indescribable flashed in his irises for an instant, and Hermione was inundated with a surge of images.

_A hand choking her throat as his cock spasmed inside her, so hard that he yelled out his climax._

_The glint of satisfaction on his face the one and only time she had his tie twisted around his neck, pulling hard on her makeshift reins as she rode him._

_The one and only time she saw vulnerability shift over his features as he murmured her name._

The cold edge of the desk dug into her bare hip, jerking her back to the present. She stumbled on her tiptoes, her hands gripping his forearm, as she sought to separate reality from fantasy.

Vulnerability? She must have been hallucinating. The only time he would show vulnerability would be as a gimmick to draw her out, as though he hadn’t already abused her to the highest extent possible. 

_Harry._ The name passed through her mind faintly, reminding her of all those she was betraying. Her life wasn’t the only one at stake here. "Yes.” Her wavery voice grew stronger. "Let me go. If you let me go now, surely the lack of satisfaction would be punishment enough."

The hand tightened on her throat so hard she gagged and choked. Her hands flew from his arms to his inexorable grip, pulling at his fingers, prying at them to loosen. She saw stars before he jerked her up off the table to face him. His eyes were black and dangerous, and a muscle ticked at his jaw. _“Don’t you fucking think of another man while you’re here with me._ Is that understood?”

He shook her once in accompaniment to his snarled threat. Her arse was completely lifted off the desktop, and her heels thudded helplessly against the side of the table.

She was going to die here, on his hand. 

She wasn’t—she wasn’t ready to go, not yet.

_Understood._

Hermione barely had the wherewithal to jerk a nod, but it seemed to satisfy him. In the next second, his hand loosened, and she sagged across the top of the desk in a debilitated heap, coughing and gasping, her shoulders heaving as she took in the much-needed air again. Swallowing suddenly felt like knives stabbing through her neck.

As though his sudden rage had never occurred, he chuckled. She flinched at the sound, darting a sideways glance at him. The flash of perfect white teeth glinted mockingly at her. There should have been fangs or jagged edges on a set of rotten teeth to reveal the depravity within, but every physical aspect of him was as perfect as the next. 

His hand came up to gently cup her breast before he plucked at her hardened nipple. She closed her eyes momentarily at the sensation warring with the terror of a second before. Her hands were still jittery with the fear of imminent death, and yet, relief could be so oddly arousing.

He trailed a line down the middle of her belly and down over her mound, where his third finger traced slow circles around her clit, glancing over it just the once. 

Just enough to make her hips buck at the sudden tender touch.

He leaned in close to her, and she could tell by his voice that he was smiling now, his mood once again effervescent. "I'm not going to let you go." His breath tickled her neck. "Because I know exactly what you do in your bed at night, you naughty puss. You do this—" his hand pinched her nipple hard "—and you do this—" his hand gripped her on her cunt, his thumb pressing against the Mark. "Don't you?"

Hermione couldn't speak. Her breath was coming in too hard at the unwelcome sensations rippling through her body.

She was forced back down over the desk again, this time with her cheek pressed down on the cool surface of the oak. Despite her death scare, her breasts felt swollen and impossibly heavy on the desk, and she ached with the need to rub them to relieve the throbbing. Her hands were folded behind her back, his hand locking them together in place. 

Again the rush of cool air as her skirt was flipped up over her hips. There was a pause before he adjusted her knickers, fastidiously smoothing the fabric over her mound. He pulled it just so, high on her hips, snapping the elastic once as he bared her buttocks, his finger pulling the cotton to separate her nether lips. She knew he liked to see the line of her seam clearly through the cloth. 

A shoe came out to knock the inside of her foot, kicking it out to the side. She stumbled as her legs were spread further apart.

"Better." The word brushed against her temple, sending a wisp of hair fluttering.

A strike, this time harder and right over the fleshy part where her arse cheeks met. "Five," she whispered, feeling the blow reverberate all the way through to her canal. Her inner walls clenched, and she shut her eyes, tempering her breathing, trying not to swallow through her sore throat.

She wished then, with all her might, that she could call on bottomless reserves of courage to rage back at him. To fight until the death. To not care if she lived or died.

That had been her goal at the start of all this. Now, more and more often, all she wished was for him to satiate the hunger deep within her.

He struck her again, his hand forming a slight cup over her puckered arsehole. She felt the sting of it at her crevice, and her knees shook. She couldn’t help but wiggle against another ache building in her core.

"S-six." Almost over. It couldn’t be over fast enough. Her legs felt rubbery with the strain of standing and maintaining her emotionless facade, even as the pool of moisture at her apex grew. Her hand formed into a fist next to her temple. Why, oh _why_ did he still have this effect on her body when she knew he was capable of killing her?

As in the preceding weeks, Hermione had no good answer for that.

The next blow struck her right over her throbbing sex, glancing sharply over her clit. This time she couldn't help the soft keening sound that emerged from her lips. Her hips canted sharply backwards into the hand that hit it, and her core undulated with the need to wrap around him. She hated this. She hated being at his mercy like this. 

It was as though he wasn’t satisfied with taking her against her will. He had to make her body betray her too. He was learning the signals of her body so well, knew just how far to go to make her ache for him. It was torture of not just the body, but of her mind and her loyalties, slowly, interminably, endlessly.

If only she could just return to her dorm, where her furious hand could make the ache go away. It was nothing but a physical, biological urge, wasn’t it? 

A soft laugh sounded above her. "That impatient, are we? You've been so good that we should hurry this up." Two fingers came and thrust into her wetness, filling her with a swift surge of relief that downturned into disappointment. She didn’t want his fingers. They weren’t hot enough, thick enough, long enough. 

Yet, her hips were thrusting, and her vulva wetly swallowed his fingers with a noisy, slurping sound. Her eyelids fluttered shut as she shallowly rode his fingers once, twice before he pulled them away. “Soon,” he said, and surely it wasn’t her imagination that his voice sounded just as thick as her head felt.

She heard the metallic clang of a belt buckle, the rustling of cloth rubbing against itself, and then his hot flesh touched her right on top of her left arse cheek. The urge to turn to see him was overwhelming, and she resisted for only a minute before her head moved lethargically around.

He'd released himself from his trousers, holding his large cock by the base as it rested on her arse. It was thick and ridged with veins, its mushroom head prominent and beaded with precum. Unwittingly, she licked her lips. Her cunt had begun clenching with the need to take his length inside her.

He moved to stand behind her, positioned between her thighs. Her knickers were still in place, but she was so wet the fabric felt sodden with her dampness. She tensed as he prodded her folds with his bulbous head through the fabric, rubbing one side of her exposed labia with the weeping mushroom tip. Teasing her and dragging it slowly on either side except where it counted. A slap on her arse shook her out of her lust-filled reverie.

She gasped at the spiking pain of the blow when she’d been expecting him to pull the gusset of her knickers to the side and sink into her. "Eight!”

He exhaled behind her, the sound filled with tight amusement. Then, as though his control had ruptured, he ripped the knickers off completely, and she heard his muttered incantation as the fabric disappeared completely. 

A surge of irritation broke through her terror. “Stop vanishing my knickers!” She swivelled her head around to see him standing there, fully clothed, with only his member lewdly sticking out from within his trousers, the belt buckle cold where it pressed up against the side of her arse. The rest of him was pristine, except for a lock of hair that had fallen across his brow. Even his shirt was still neatly tucked in. She felt a strange combination of hatred and awe at his unearthly physical perfection—an angel created in the image of God, only to putrefy from unchecked corrosion within. 

At her cheek, he looked up with a quirked eyebrow and met her eyes. She flushed with mortification and whipped her head forward again. Her heart was settling after its quick lurch at the eye contact. No, no, no. She wasn't supposed to like this. She wasn’t supposed to _want_ this. This was rape, this was non-consensual—

A suppressed sob escaped her before she bit it back. It was beginning to be harder and harder to deny just how much she was coming to desire this. To want him and his thick cock pumping in and out of her. To enjoy the feel of his lean, strong arms around her in a way that should have felt like a straitjacket but that she was coming to associate with a sense of belonging. 

He froze momentarily at the sound of her short outburst, and a hand stroked her on her shoulder before sliding down her back in a weird facsimile of comfort. Before she had a chance to absorb that strangely gentle caress, he gripped her by her hair and pulled her head back. His erection nudged insistently at her entrance, shallowly dipping into her. “Don’t fucking move,” he said. His lowly growled threat was accompanied by another slap.

She almost couldn’t swallow. Rage at her helplessness made her snap back. "Nine! I’m counting it." 

He was pressed so close against her that she felt it when his belly heaved with his movements. He was—chuckling. She pulled against the grip on her hair and twisted her head around to see him momentarily resting his forehead against her shoulder. 

The rigid line of his brow and cheeks were relaxed when he laughed like this, and his glittering eyes even crinkled up at the corners in a manner that was much too—human.

That was the word for it. Strangely, these were the moments where she felt the most vulnerable around him, as though something inside her were being split in half by _his_ dichotomy. She shut her eyes against the mesmerising sight of his all too personable humour and angled her buttocks higher, inviting him in, hurrying it all along. The sooner this was over, the better.

The silent encouragement seemed to work. His hands stroked her where she’d been struck. "How much do you want this?" 

She dipped her head down in a nod. He rubbed the head of his cock against her core, slowly, lingeringly. A whimper escaped her when it nudged against her clit. Her eyes flew open, and her teeth clamped down on her bottom lip in shame. She wasn’t supposed to make such sounds. She didn’t want this. 

As though in direct contradiction of her thoughts, her hips bucked backwards, her back arched, and her walls undulated around him, trying to pull him in.

"How much do you want this?"

Even as much as her body sought to betray her, the lack of pride in the truth was hard to take. She tried to hold her words back as long as possible, but the Compulsion Charm was too strong. The words stuttered past her lips. "A—a lot."

He rewarded her with a long stroke with his cock before pulsing his tip just inside her entrance so that she uttered a soft sob.

"How often have you fantasised about this?"

She bit her tongue in an effort not to speak. 

Despite herself, she thought about him all the time. She'd be in the Great Hall, and a glance up at the head table would show Headmaster Riddle watching her, running one long finger over the edge of his bottom lip, and her mind would flash to other scenes where he'd done that. Other times when his lips would be wet and glittering and coated with her juices right before he wiped them with that one finger. Always the finger that he used to fuck her.

She'd sit in class, trying desperately to concentrate and not think about how he would simply amble up to her in the corridor with his hands in his pockets to request a moment of time with the Gryffindor prefect. She’d be completely tense as his hand pressed against the small of her back, a seemingly light and impersonal touch to get her attention. The other girls would stare and giggle at the way she was singled out by the eminently “shaggable” Headmaster, waggling their eyebrows suggestively at her as she nodded brusquely to his request.

Then they'd retreat to an alcove, with him keeping up a steady string of chatter about the weather and her classes until they disappeared around the wall. A charm would suddenly seal them from view, and he'd slip a hand under her skirt, a finger thrusting into her. Another hand would be held hard against her mouth, two fingers thrust past her teeth to hush her. He'd bring her to the edge of ecstasy and then withdraw his fingers, licking them with a wicked grin before he swept off back down the hall. Her jaw would be sore for the rest of the day.

One time, he’d christened that alcove by shattering the glass windows overlooking the Quidditch pitch. Anyone looking in their direction could plainly see a disrobed Hermione Granger being fucked by the Headmaster, and she’d silently sobbed at the thought of that disgrace. He’d taken her from behind as the game swirled overhead, and spectators hooted and cheered. She was terrified someone with binoculars would sweep them across the grounds and see them. _Doesn’t that give you a fucking thrill?_ he’d asked her, holding her hands above her head and locking them into position on the window-frame so she couldn’t move or duck her head to hide her identity. _It does me_ , he said before his hips began to rock against her, his balls slapping against her clit, faster and faster until she couldn’t help but utter a tight scream as she exploded around his cock.

Or that time when she was talking to someone in the courtyard, and suddenly she knew she was being observed. A whispered comment from a classmate informed her that he was standing overhead on the bridge, watching them. Instead of looking up to his silent demand, she'd defiantly tossed her hair over one shoulder. She was repaid in full when a sudden tingle of magic spread over her body. Her bra vanished from under her shirt, and her breasts fell from their confinement, her nipples pebbling at the unexpected shock of friction against her tight shirt. A coolness under her skirt alerted her to the similar disappearance of her knickers. She’d jerked to her toes, holding her skirts down as a rush of sensation flooded her core. From a distance, he looked like he was twirling his wand, but he was actually sending vibrations straight up against her cunt so that she could barely stand. 

She muttered an excuse and rushed off to the dorm. When she passed by a mirror, she'd been so horrified and embarrassed by her reflection. Her nipples were completely visible through the white of her shirt. She might as well have been naked with the areola of her nipples so distinctly apparent and her chest straining against the fabric. No wonder Malfoy had stared at her so strangely when he’d passed her, going so far as to stumble to a stop and do a double-take.

He was a strange addiction that had befallen her, becoming something she yearned for water for a lost man in the desert. It _had_ to be something with the Mark on her. It just had to be. 

What else could account for her draw to him when she knew exactly what sort of a horrific animal he was?

But perhaps the Mark went both ways. 

It was difficult thinking about it rationally, as though the mere thought of Tom Riddle would send her hormones ringing with desperation. There was something else there, otherwise why would he be so angry when summoned by her through the same link? 

It niggled at her. There was something there, if only she could figure it out.

Behind her, he hadn’t noticed her straying thoughts, or perhaps they were just too disjointed and fragmented for him to make head or tail of it. His fingers continued to stroke her between her legs to the accompaniment of his cock lined up flat against her entrance.

"How often do you fantasise about me?" he asked.

_All the time_ , came the unbidden thought in the midst of her swirling theories, and she sensed his gloating satisfaction at that response. 

She thought of him all the time, cursing herself for knowing who and what he was and wanting him despite it all. She wished she could Obliviate the memory of him out of her head. She hated him and wanted him in equal measure. In the darkness of her nights, she yearned to lie up in the headmaster tower with him, to have his hands on her breasts, her legs astride him, and his hot cock buried in her clenching cunt. She wanted him all the time, in all the positions he'd introduced her to. 

_God!_ What was wrong with her? She thought of nothing else but the smooth expanse of his shoulders when his shirt came off, the sinewy length of his forearms, clean of any Dark Mark in this regenerated form, that lean abdomen ridged with muscles. But most of all, she’d grown accustomed to that thick, long cock and how it drove all thoughts of sanity from her head. She missed the feel of it in her mouth when he was away from the castle. She wanted it in her hands, in her cunt, in her arse, in any way he could give it to her. 

At times, she thought of the look on Barty Crouch, Jr., and how fanatical he looked. How he seemed willing to maim and kill and even die on behalf of this wretched demon. As though the same addiction ran through his blood.

It had to be some kind of a curse, if only she could figure it out. 

But how? 

What could she do against a man who had overcome death? What could she do when her thoughts weren’t even her own anymore? She gave a short laugh, filled with desperation and despair. "All the fucking time, you sodding prick."

He rewarded her then with an open-mouthed kiss right over her lips.

They were lips that kissed her mother and father goodbye at the start of term, lips that joked innocently with her girlfriends about boys, lips that lied to Ron and Harry about the Headmaster. 

Lips that had closed around the cock and balls of a Dark wizard.

Lips that had kissed him on the mouth, on his neck, and everywhere that he’d commanded her.

Lips that kissed him now, with tongues that stroked up against one another, mimicking other acts of rubbing and mating. She shuddered as his cock entered her in one smooth stroke, gasping as her cunt expanded around his thick girth to accommodate him. Her hips began to move at a furious pace even as his hand came around to hold her in place, to control the speed. The need inside her was already rushing through her like wildfire.

His strokes were always so excruciatingly slow and torturous. A hand came around to cup her mound, his fingers right over her clit. They rubbed her in the same rhythm as his cock’s leisurely strokes—slow to the point of maddening. She tried to buck him off; she was sobbing, but he hushed her and nipped her on her earlobe. His fingers never stopped, finding that hard nub between her legs, pressing it in circles until she was going out of her mind. When he delivered the last slap, a light tap against her cunt, she exploded, spasming furiously around his cock, her juices gushing all around him.

Her walls clenched and fluttered until her knees sagged, and only his arms holding her about the waist locked her in place. Only when she had come down off her first climax did he speed up, his cock slamming in and out of her hard and fast, skewering her over and over again. He gripped her to him as though they were something other than master and slave, like they were secret lovers hiding their affair from all others, cupping her breast in one hand as he supported her boneless body. She clutched his forearms as everything that had come before this sent her oversensitive flesh over the brink again, and she came apart underneath him again. 

Her sobs were a mixture of ecstasy and anguish as she drifted down in a daze. 

Behind her, his hand lazily reached down to cup her soaked core, touching them where they were joined, his flesh still hard and stiff, dragging on her unbearably. 

Their mixed come leaked down her leg, and he idly traced the fluid with a finger, dragging it in a line up her pelvis, lightly brushing over his Mark. A shudder worked its way up her spine before he touched an oversensitive nipple before reaching higher, stroking her neck, her lips. She could taste their mixed juices.

"Who does this naughty cunt belong to?" His voice was ragged and sounded almost fierce in her ear. The hand that gripped her torso and locked her arm in place was rigid, the veins standing out in his forearm.

Her fingernails made reddened half moons on his forearm, and her legs were shaking so hard that it was a trial to remain standing on her own. She leaned backwards instead, resting her head under the curve of his jaw, panting still from the exertion.

Across from them, the window of the tower hung open, with creeping vines of jasmine that had opened up in the night air, the heady scent mixing with the musk of sweaty soaked sex. The curtains billowed lazily, offering no obstruction to anyone looking in and seeing their lewd actions with startling clarity. A Hermione Granger with her shirt and bra in pieces, her skirt pulled haphazardly around her waist, standing in the embrace of a dark, unnaturally handsome man who looked too young to be the headmaster. 

He clearly didn’t care what he looked like, standing almost fully dressed with only his sleeves rolled up to reveal pristine alabaster skin and only his cock revealed at full salute through the opening of his trousers. That part of him was still buried inside his barely legal student, the mess of their copulation smeared on the front of his clothes.

If the window had been closed, she'd have seen the reflection of his smirk as he covered her breasts with his hands. 

Who did she belong to? The answer was almost inevitable if she couldn’t figure out an escape. "To you, Tom. Only to you."

**Author's Note:**

> *quote accredited to Harriet Tubman. I feel like someone so enlightened as Hermione would have read her biographical accounts when taking into account the plight of the house elves.
> 
> Special thanks to Disenchantedglow and Jame for beta work and feedback on this exceedingly dirty fic. Really, it's just gratuitous smut. I changed SOOO much after they both did the work, so any mistakes belong to me alone. 
> 
> It's my first time writing such a long Tomione! Apologies for going over the word limit. Actually, I wrote several different versions of this. My first few attempts were even longer and about to launch this into a multi-chapter with tons of complicated background, so this is already a super revised (and smuttier) version.


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